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User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 24
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Twenty-Four 25 December 1962 Minerva woke with a tickling sensation in her nose. She opened her eyes to find Alastor leaning over her, a sprig of mistletoe in his hand, Malcolm standing beside him, grinning. She sat up, exclaiming, “Alastor Moody! What on earth—” “Happy Christmas, Mum!” said Malcolm, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “I wanted to surprise you this morning, and I roped Alastor into being my partner in crime. I figured he’d know how to get in here without waking you.” “Now, don’t be cross with me, Minerva,” said Alastor. “Your boy here is almost as persuasive as you are.” “I don’t doubt it,” said Minerva, rubbing the sleepiness from her eyes. “Ahem,” said Malcolm, who had Levitated the sprig of mistletoe to hover over his mother. “Aren’t you going to give Alastor his kiss?” Minerva quickly pecked Alastor on the lips, then said, “All right now, you two, make yourselves scarce while I get dressed.” Five minutes later, she emerged into her sitting room to find a full breakfast and a roaring fire waiting for her. “What’s all this?” she asked. Malcolm replied, “Breakfast. I thought we could have a private Christmas morning together … just, you know, the family.” Minerva saw him glance at Alastor, and she realised in that moment how badly her son wanted to be part of a family rather than just the deputy headmistress’s son. She pressed her lips together tightly and went over to the table, more to hide her pooling eyes than out of hunger. “Professor Dumbledore said it would be all right,” continued Malcolm. “He’s covering breakfast in the Great Hall with Hagrid.” At the mention of Albus’s name, Minerva felt a slight shiver that had little to do with the snow that had blanketed the grounds overnight. “This is a lovely surprise, thank you Malcolm,” she said. They tucked into breakfast, Malcolm with considerably more gusto than either of the adults, and when they were finished, they settled next to the fire to open presents. Just before they began, Malcolm said, “Wait a minute! We need Elgar. Can you call him, Mum?” She did so, and a moment later, the elf appeared, asking, “Did you need something, Mistress?” “We’re having a bit of an early Christmas celebration, Elgar,” Minerva replied, indicating the gifts that were piled near the fireplace, “and we wanted you to be with us.” “Mistress is very kind,” said Elgar with a bow. “If you will excuse Elgar, Mistress, I is returning to my quarters to get some things. I is returning in a moment.” The elf popped away, then returned a few moments later, two small parcels in his arms. “Now,” said Malcolm, rubbing his hands together in mock greed, “let’s see what we have here.” A half hour later, Malcolm was already lost in the pages of the book Alastor had given him—a thriller set during the 1940s that interwove details from the Grindelwald and Muggle wars and featured a Muggle-born spy with seemingly amazing powers—sitting on the floor by the fireplace, absently munching on one of the scones from the broomstick-bedecked tin Elgar had presented him with. The elf had popped out a few minutes earlier, delighted with the small woollen throw blanket Minerva had got for him. He had clearly been touched when she told him that Malcolm had charmed it himself to take the McGonagall-family tartan pattern. “Anyone care for a walk?” said Alastor. “Maybe help me try out me new cloak?” Minerva had given him a beautiful brown leather cloak that was enhanced with numerous magically expanding inside pockets and several charms that would protect the wearer against many common hexes and jinxes, although, of course, it would not work against true curses or other stronger magic. “All right,” said Minerva. “I’ll get my cloak.” “I’ll catch up as soon as I finish this chapter,” said Malcolm. The snow on the grounds was several inches thick, and Minerva had to use her wand to clear a path so that their boots wouldn’t sink into it. As they set out across the central courtyard, Minerva was a little self-conscious at being seen walking alone with Alastor. Several students were there, attempting to build an enormous snowman, and she could feel their eyes on Alastor and her as they went by. When the couple emerged from the courtyard into the west meadow, Minerva was suddenly hit in the chest by a snowball. The attack was followed by a male voice calling, “Merlin! Sorry, Professor! Thought you were someone else!” “As you can see, I am not,” said Minerva, brushing the snow from her cloak. She was about to scold the offender when he was suddenly pelted with snowball after snowball, and she turned to see Alastor, wand pointed at the boy, snow being rapidly siphoned from the ground and formed into the round, wet missiles that were assaulting young Amos Diggory. When the barrage ended, Diggory stood there dripping snow, looking utterly stunned, and several of his friends stood a few feet behind him, equally immobilised by the extraordinary spectacle of a grown wizard pummelling their schoolmate with magical snowballs. “Well, boy?” Alastor challenged. “Aren’t you going to fire back? Or don’t they teach you any defence skills here anymore?” Minerva saw the grin that slowly spread across Diggory’s face, and she decided to get out of the line of fire as the boy and his friends began gathering snow for the counter-attack. “Come on, lads!” shouted Alastor. “Are you telling me you lot can’t manage a simple spell to throw snow?” as he dodged and Protego-ed against the onslaught. It was about five minutes before one of Alastor’s opponents, a girl Minerva recognised as first-year Molly Prewett only after she removed the enormous hood of her cloak, cried, “Wait!” Her voice was surprisingly loud for such a tiny thing. The battle sputtered to a halt as she yelled, “Wait a minute!” Everyone turned to look at her, and Minerva couldn’t help feeling a small burst of pride at the young Gryffindor’s perceptiveness when she said, “Why isn’t anything hitting him? I mean, he couldn’t have dodged everything, could he? Not with the six of us aiming at him.” Now everyone turned to Alastor, who was wearing a subtle smile. “Yeah, he’s not even wet,” said Amos. “Ah, lads, you’ve been shown up by the lady,” Alastor said with a slight bow in Molly’s direction. “While you were all firing away at me, wasting your energy and showing me what you’ve got into the bargain, this young lass took the time to make an important observation.” Alastor stepped forward, his arms wide, saying, “Do ye see the mark of any snow on me? Any at all?” The students were silent. “You don’t, do you? It’s as she said: nothing got through. And you’d all have been shooting away until yer arms fell off or until you were buried under my fire, if your friend here hadn’t sussed it out. Come on, out with it, lassie: What’s going on?” “It’s a charm,” said Molly. “Some kind of Impervious. A really strong one.” “Very good,” said Alastor. “And what do you do when an opponent uses a charm against you?” Silence. Alastor answered his own question: “You either use a counter-charm or figure one out right quick. Or you retreat and live to fight another day.” Minerva saw him put a hand—probably unconsciously—against his injured side. “So what’s the counter-charm?” piped up a treble voice belonging to another first-year Gryffindor, Arthur Weasley, easily recognisable by his shock of red hair. Minerva saw Alastor roll his eyes. He said, tapping his temple, “Come on, lad, think! What’s the first thing you should try if you suspect an opponent is using a charm you don’t like?” “Finite Incantatem,” said Diggory. “Very good. Give it a try,” said Alastor, stowing his wand and clasping his hands behind his back. Looking around at his pals for moral support, Diggory stepped forward and pointed his wand at the Auror, giving the incantation in a firm voice. “All right, now. Have at me again,” said Alastor. Amos bent to collect some snow, fashioned it into a ball, and hurled it at the man’s chest. The snowball appeared to explode several inches in front of Alastor, who was smiling sanguinely. “Why didn’t it work?” asked Diggory. “Because the protective charms I’ve got on me won’t respond to a simple Finite,” Alastor responded. “But you were right, lad, to try the simplest counter-charm first. When you don’t know what spells your opponent is using, a basic countermeasure should always be first on your list. It just might work, and even if it doesn’t, it has little chance of rebounding and harming you or any bystanders. At the very least, it tells you your opponent isn’t a piker and you’ll need to watch yerself. So good work, young man. P’raps you’ve got the makings of an Auror. Along with that auburn-haired lass there.” Both Molly and Amos beamed. “Now if you lot don’t mind, I’d like to be gettin’ on with me walk,” Alastor continued. “Professor?” he said, “Shall we move on?” “Quite,” said Minerva. As they walked on past the group of students, Minerva turned to say, “And five points to Gryffindor and Hufflepuff each.” They had a lovely walk in the snow around the loch, and Minerva relaxed enough to take Moody’s elbow when he offered it as they traversed some icy patches. When they returned to Minerva’s quarters, they found Malcolm still engrossed in his book. “You missed an exciting snowball fight,” Minerva said to him, stripping off her gloves and warming her hands by the fire. “Really?” asked Malcolm. “Yes. Alastor demonstrated some basic defensive skills to some of your schoolmates,” said Minerva. “I’m sorry I missed it,” said Malcolm. “Oh, Mum, one of the elves dropped off a message for you while you were out. It’s on the table.” Minerva opened the note: Minerva, I will be out visiting a friend this morning but plan to be back in my office after lunch. Please come see me then, and we will talk. Albus When she looked up, she saw Alastor peering at her. She folded the note and put it in her robe pocket. She said, “I need to meet with Professor Dumbledore for a bit this afternoon. Maybe the two of you can have a game of chess or two then.” “Better yet,” said Alastor, “Malcolm and I can work on his defensive skills some more. I never did finish showing you the various charms to protect your wand,” he said to Malcolm. “The Burning Charm works great, though,” said Malcolm. “I used it when Yax— I mean, I used it during a fight recently.” “Have you been fighting, lad?” enquired Alastor. “That’s not like you.” “No, it’s not like him,” Minerva interjected. “But he was set upon by a bunch of thugs on the Hogwarts Express, so he had to defend himself.” “A group, you say?” said Alastor. “Yeah, but it wasn’t a big thing …” said Malcolm, and Minerva realised he was embarrassed. “No,” she said, “and he’s fine, Alastor.” “I can see that,” Alastor said. “But were you able to fight them off? Use any of what we’ve worked on?” “Some,” said Malcolm. “The wandless hex deflection you showed me was great, but one of them managed to Petrify me anyway.” Minerva hoped he wouldn’t mention the invisibility. She had no idea if Alastor knew anything about the Dumbledore family’s unusual talent, but she wouldn’t put it past him. Alastor knew a lot about esoteric magic, it seemed, and the last thing Minerva wanted to add to her worries today was Alastor making the connection between Albus and her son. Alastor said, “Ah, that happens to the best of us, Malcolm. Especially when you’ve got more than one opponent firing at you.” “Yeah, well … I made a stupid mistake. I turned my back on them. I thought the fight was over.” “You were trying to diffuse the situation,” said Minerva. “A fight among schoolboys is a different proposition from a duel with a Dark wizard.” “Aye, but it’s still good policy not to turn your back on a Slytherin,” said Alastor. “How do you know they were Slytherins?” asked Malcolm. “Who else would gang up on a Gryffindor?” Minerva interrupted. “Alastor, I’ll thank you not to fill my son’s head with paranoia about Slytherin.” “Ah, sorry, Minerva. I forgot it was Malcolm’s dad’s house. I’ll keep me mouth shut about it in future.” “Thank you,” she said. After lunch in the Great Hall, Malcolm and Alastor went off to find a disused classroom in which to work on duelling skills. Before they left, Alastor kissed Minerva’s forehead and whispered, “Good luck with your meeting, love.” Minerva’s footfalls sounded terribly loud to her as she walked the corridor leading to the entrance to the headmaster’s office. For perhaps the first time in her life, she was unprepared—she had no idea of what she might say to Albus. “I’m sorry” just didn’t seem adequate, nor was it especially accurate. She was—she had long been—unhappy at having deceived him, but faced with the same choices, knowing what she now knew, she wasn’t sure she would act differently. From the moment of his birth, Malcolm had been everything to her. Minerva had kept her son like a beacon in her mind, guiding every step she had taken, every choice she had made since he’d been given to her by whatever power governed these things. And if some of those choices had been wrong, they’d nevertheless led them here, to this time and place, to safety. Malcolm was healthy. He was happy. He was whole. She held that in her heart like a talisman as she approached Albus’s office and whatever he might have to say to her. The gargoyle guarding his office seemed to be expecting her, as he said, “Enter, Professor McGonagall,” and the stone entryway parted as soon as she stepped in front of it. The inner door stood open when she arrived at the top of the spiral staircase, and Albus was standing in the middle of the room, hands folded behind his back, and Minerva felt like a student being called on the carpet for some infraction of rules, which, she supposed, in a way she was. Except the infraction was seventeen years behind her. She took a hesitant few steps in, searching his face for any sign of what he might be feeling. He only said, “Minerva.” “How angry are you?” “Pretty bloody angry.” She nodded. “You weren’t ever to know,” she said. “And that makes it all right?” “No. Of course not. I just mean that I never intended it to hurt you—or affect you in any way.” “Yet you brought him here.” “Yes. It was best for him.” “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” “You wouldn’t have. Except for this … accident of nature.” “That is immaterial. I know now,” he said. “Yes. You know now.” She hesitated, then asked, “And how do you feel about it? Other than angry?” He closed his eyes for a moment and said, “I’m not sure.” He looked at her, and a grimace of pain flitted briefly across his features. He said, “I cannot be a father, Minerva.” “I would never ask that. Malcolm is my responsibility.” “No!” Albus said sharply, startling her. “He is also my responsibility. You made sure of that.” “I never meant—” She had never heard him shout before, and the sound shook her as the thunder used to do when it rolled off the hills near her childhood home. “Do you think your actions have no impact on others, Minerva? Do you? Because I can tell you from bitter experience that they most assuredly do. Whether or not you intend them.” She had no answer. He continued, more calmly now: “Regardless of your admirable intentions, Malcolm is very much my responsibility. You cannot wave your wand and absolve me of it simply because you’d have it so.” “I intend to make no defence, Albus,” she said. “All I can say is that I expect nothing from you with regard to Malcolm. He knows nothing of any of this.” “He believes Gerald Macnair to be his father?” Albus asked. “Yes.” “Did Macnair believe it?” “To the best of my knowledge, he did,” Minerva answered. “I believe … I believe my mother suspects that Gerald was not Malcolm’s father. But she’s never given any indication that she knows who is.” Minerva had often wondered if her mother suspected who the father of Minerva’s child had been. Minerva had a dim recollection of thinking of Albus during the desperate hours in which she had been nearly delirious with the pain of childbirth—thinking he might somehow rescue her with his strong magic when she had been certain she must die of it. She knew she had screamed aloud at the end, but had she spoken his name? On that point, her memory was an unreliable reporter. “You could have come to me, Minerva. When things started going wrong. You could have trusted me with the truth—even after Malcolm. I would have helped you both. I think that is what hurts the most. That you didn’t trust me. Did you think I would turn you both away?” “I didn’t want charity.” “No. You said as much the night you asked me to bed you. You wouldn’t take my money. You were too proud. But later, Minerva? Was it really better to live with Macnair … to subject yourself and your son … our son … to his madness?” “Gerald wasn’t mad.” “No? Was he a good husband, then? A good father?” “No. But I felt I couldn’t turn to you. I thought you would hate me for what I had done.” “I would not have hated you, Minerva.” “And now, Albus? Do you hate me now?” “No. But I don’t know if I can trust you.” Oh, how that hurt! But it was no more than she deserved. Albus had turned and was pacing away from her. “What will you do?” she asked his back. “Do?” he asked, turning to her again. “Nothing, Minerva. I cannot do anything. I cannot change what’s done, and I cannot change how I feel about Malcolm.” “And how is that?” “I care for him. He is a good boy … and he is your son, which makes him dear to me. But I don’t love him … as a father. I cannot.” He put a large hand over his face, and she realised with horror that he was weeping. She had caused this man, who had been nothing but good to her, such terrible pain; she hadn’t considered, even in her most fearful imaginings about his discovering the truth about Malcolm, that he would flay himself with guilt over being unable to love his son. She could only watch as he wept. After a minute or two, he gathered his composure. She conjured a handkerchief and handed it to him. He dried his eyes, and then, to her surprise, he gave a sharp laugh. “Funny, isn’t it?” “What is?” “All I’ve done … all the trials I’ve faced over the years … and this … situation has me completely unmanned.” “Children have a way of doing that,” she said. She forced herself to add: “Do you want us to go?” “No. I cannot pretend that I didn’t consider sending you both away. But I found that contemplating that was more painful than the idea of seeing you both every day. You are very important to me, Minerva. Perhaps more than I realised.” “And I’ve hurt you terribly.” “Yes.” “For that, I am truly sorry. Will you ever forgive me?” “I imagine so. In time.” “And Malcolm?” It hurt her to ask, to cause him more pain, but she had to know. “What about him?” Albus asked. “Will you be able to … stand him? As before? Be his friend?” “I don’t know, Minerva. I don’t think it can be as before. Before I felt … avuncular, perhaps. Now … I just don’t know how to feel …” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Then maybe it would be best if we went—” “Don’t. If you go, things will never be settled between us. And I have too much unfinished business already. I don’t want you … or Malcolm … to be another on a long list of regrets.” “All right.” After a few moments, he said, “I wish … Minerva, I wish you had felt able to be honest with me. When you came to me with your … request.” “I wish that too, Albus. But if I had asked you outright, would you have done it?” “No.” “Then I can’t regret it,” she said. “No. You made that clear in your letter.” The resentment in his voice stung like salt water hitting an open wound. She said, “And you, Albus? Do you wish it had never happened?” He seemed at a loss for words for a moment, then he said, “I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so proper.” “Shakespeare.” “Yes.” “Which play is it?” she asked. “I can’t remember.” “King Lear,” he said. “Another old fool.” She said, “He was betrayed. By people he loved and trusted.” “But not all. He reconciled with Cordelia in the end.” Minerva said, “She was the fool, I always thought. Too proud to heave her heart into her mouth. Look where it led them.” “Yes. But I am hopeful, Minerva, that we will have a happier ending than did Lear and Cordelia.” “Will we?” “I’m sure of it.” Albus stepped toward her, and for a moment she wasn’t certain what he was going to do, but he only dabbed at the tears that had crawled down her cheeks with the handkerchief she had conjured to dry his own. “Thank you,” she whispered. He Vanished the handkerchief, saying, “Now. Let’s have no more tears for today. Either of us.” “All right.” Albus turned and went to the window, looking out across the snow-covered grounds. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” he asked. “Yes, it is.” After another moment, Albus asked, “He is happy, isn’t he? Malcolm?” She smiled. “Yes. I think so.” “Does he miss his … does he miss Gerald?” “He doesn’t say. I think … I think he’s afraid to mention him to me.” Albus turned and looked at her quizzically, and she said, “Our life in France was difficult. He saw more than a child should have to.” “I see.” She was glad that Albus didn’t ask more about it. She wasn’t ready to tell him the rest of it, although she would, in time. And then, she thought, she might lose him forever. But she didn’t think she could bear it just yet. “And Alastor,” he said, “do he and Malcolm get on?” “Very well. Alastor is surprisingly good with children,” she said. “Is he?” “Yes.” She relayed the story of the morning’s snowball fight, relieved to be talking about something ordinary again. Albus laughed—and she thought she’d never heard a more beautiful sound. Perhaps they would come out all right in the end. Growing serious again, Albus asked, “And does he make you happy?” “He does.” “I’m glad,” he said. “Oh! I nearly forgot.” He crossed to his desk and retrieved a small package from one of the drawers. “Your Christmas present,” he said, holding it out to her. “I … I didn’t bring yours,” she stammered, “I didn’t think …” He waved his hands, saying, “No matter.” “Shall I open it?” “By all means.” She pulled the string holding the small parcel shut, and the paper unfolded itself to reveal an envelope upon which was emblazoned dozens of tiny black and white birds. When she opened the envelope she found two tickets, also bedecked in black and white birds. “Tickets to the Magpies?” she asked, astonished. “Yes. For next season. Home games, of course. I thought perhaps you and Alastor might enjoy them … or you and Malcolm, assuming he stays in Britain after leaving Hogwarts.” “Thank you, Albus. This is a very generous gift.” “You’re most welcome,” he said. “Now … go enjoy your holiday. You’ll be visiting your parents tomorrow and overnight, won’t you?” “Yes, if it’s still convenient.” “Of course.” He walked her to the door, and before she stepped through it, she turned to him, saying, “Happy Christmas, Albus.” “Happy Christmas, Minerva.” ← Back to Chapter 23 On to Chapter 25→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A